


Surrender

by luthor_pendragon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Friendship, M/M, Wrestling, bad night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 22:24:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3464279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luthor_pendragon/pseuds/luthor_pendragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's had a bad night. John Watson makes it better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surrender

The phone in his pocket went off. “Mycroft, thank god. Is he alright?”

“He’s fine, John. Physically speaking, at least.”

The blond man sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s going to be another one of those nights, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I trust you don’t have any plans?”

“Luckily, no. But….” He was hesitant to continue.

Not that Mycroft needed him to. “But even if you had, you’d cancel them.” John cleared his throat loudly. “Although it shames me to say this, you really are good for my brother, Doctor Watson. You make him keep a straight head, even when his brains are whirling at a hundred kilometers a second, as it were.”

“Well, thank you, Mycroft, I think? What did you mean when you said it shames you?”

“He’ll be home in about fifteen minutes, John. You’d best have some tea and a cigarette waiting for him.” He hung up.

John looked down at his phone and sighed. “Oh, Sherlock.”

He set about and twenty minutes later, William Sherlock Scott Holmes shuffled quietly through the door. John was sitting in his chair, but he had moved his small side table over to the window. On it sat a steaming cuppa, a cigarette, an ashtray, and a lighter. Sherlock blankly looked at the table, over at John (who pretended to calmly ignore him), and then slumped into the chair that had been placed there as well.

The shorter man sat quietly observing his friend over the top of his book. A half-hour passed. Throughout that time, Sherlock hadn’t said a word, though he had gone through three cups of tea and four cigarettes. As it was needed, John silently replaced the consumed items with fresh ones.

“Thank you.” It was barely a whisper, but the other man heard it all the same.

“You’re welcome.” Another ten minutes passed.

“You don’t want to talk?” Sherlock looked over at his friend.

John didn’t look up. “Not if you don’t want to. You’ve gone days without speaking before.” He shrugged. “I’m used to it by now.”

The detective scoffed. “Of course you want to talk. You’re curious as hell.”

He looked the dark-haired man in the eye. “Yes, I am. But I’m not going to push you, Sherlock. I know you’ll say something if and when you’re ready to.” John closed his book and put it down. Then he walked over to the window, laying a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Other people might not think so, but I know you to be human. No matter how hard you try to control them, you still have human wants and needs and emotions.” He gave a squeeze. “Just know that I’m here, if you need me. Me, and Mrs. Hudson, and Molly, and even Mycroft.” He blocked the other man’s interjection. “No, believe it or not, your brother cares about you. He’s always looking out for you, even if you don’t recognize it.” Then John picked up Sherlock’s empty cup, turned around, and grabbed his own on the way to the kitchen.

There wasn’t much space on the counter, due to Sherlock’s myriad of experiments, but John had adjusted to life with the eccentric sociopath. He smiled. It was rather ironic that they were perfect complements to each other. Essentially, the brain and the brawn. The tremor in his left hand was a parallel to Sherlock’s entire personality: Hyper and flitting when bored, but when in action, when high on adrenaline, steady as a rock. Sherlock was long and lanky, and he was shorter, and rounder. Sherlock had dark, curly hair, while his was light and straight. Neither had had many friends, and didn’t really connect with their families, but now they had each other. One day was all it took. One day and they were the best of friends.

That’s as far as it had gone though. Who the hell knew about Sherlock Holmes when it came to relationships? Sure, John could tell that he had cared for Irene Adler in some way. Certainly more than he cared for Molly, and Janine. But Irene was long dead and Janine was gone. Now and again, Sherlock would go off on some case for months at a time, but now he always told John what he was doing. As much of it as he could, at any rate. And he always came back. He had learned his lesson when John had beat him up for faking his own death. Granted, John did appreciate that the fact he did that was to protect him, but, deep down, it still hurt.

He sighed as he poured water from the kettle into the cups. He was just about to put in new tea bags when something laid itself on his shoulder. Tilted his head a bit, laying it against the dark curls, he acknowledged the new presence. “Sherlock.”

The taller man just hummed.

“Is everything alright?”

“Will you come sit on the sofa with me, John?”

“Of course. Do you want me to bring the tea?” Sherlock shook his head. “Okay.” He put the tea bags back into the box and put the box away. Then he turned and wrapped one arm around his friend’s back.

They walked to the sofa together. John sat at one end while Sherlock laid down and put his head in his friend’s lap.

The doctor was slightly stunned at the action, but he understood. Locking eyes with the other man, John began softly running his fingers through the dark curls. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut and he hummed appreciatively. He wiggled slightly.

John smiled. “Getting comfortable?”

Sherlock nodded. “You have nice thighs.”

“Really? I wasn’t aware.” He scratched the man’s scalp lightly and his eyes went wide as the detective practically purred. This caused him to chuckle softly. “You’re kind of cute, sometimes, you know that? When you’re not being a dick, that is.”

Sherlock opened one eye. “Shut up.” The other man just laughed again.

“Alright, I’m sorry.” Sherlock frowned and turned away. John felt guilty instantly. “Sherlock? I’m sorry. Was it something I said?”

A while passed before the taller man spoke again. “Thank you, John.”

“Hm? For what?”

“For being there for me, even when I’ve hurt you.”

“Of course. Sherlock, you’re my best friend. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you.” He pulled the younger man’s chest until he turned to look up at him. “What’s wrong?”

Sherlock sighed and his eyes went glassy as he thought of what to say. “I guess it’s just, why couldn’t we have met before?”

John raised an eyebrow. “Before… what, exactly?”

“Before…“ Sherlock waved a hand indeterminately.

“Before everything? Before I went off to Afghanistan and became a hardened soldier?” Sherlock nodded. “Well, I was a different man back then. If we had met then, I most likely would have treated you the same way Sergeant Donovan does. And we wouldn’t be friends now.”

The thin man hummed thoughtfully. “I suppose it could be better that we met when we did, then.”

John nodded. “You can’t predict what’s going to happen in the future.” Sherlock started to object, but the doctor gave him a look. “You can’t do it, no matter how much you can deduce about the present. And there’s no point in asking yourself ‘What if?” when it comes to the past. You’ll only cause yourself to feel guilty and regret making the decisions you did. There’s nothing you can do to change them, so why dwell on them?”

Sherlock shifted and stared up at his friend. “Why, John, when did you become so philosophical?”

Dr. Watson smiled at the sarcasm in the detective’s voice. “I’ve always been this way. You’ve just been too wrapped up in your work to notice.”

“Oh, I’ve noticed plenty. And not once can I remember you pulling a line like that.”

“Well, how about this one, then: You do see, you just don’t observe.”

Sherlock smiled for the first time that evening. It was a small smile but it was enough to relieve the doctor. “Shame on you, John Watson, using my own words against me.”

He chuckled. “Sometimes you need a taste of your own medicine, Sherlock Holmes, and who better to give it to you than your best friend?”

“Who indeed?” Sherlock suddenly wrapped his arms around John’s torso and rolled, pulling him down to the floor. Thankfully, the older man had had to move the coffee table in order to set up the table and chair by the window comfortably.

“What the- Ahh!” Before John knew it, he was pinned under the taller man on the floor. He smirked. Well, not quite. He hooked a leg behind Sherlock’s knee and shoved his chest. He twisted, trapping the other man’s leg between his own before easily flipping him. “Sherlock, why are we doing this?”

The detective shrugged and quickly lunged at the doctor. John reflexively backed off, thereby loosening his grip on the other man’s shoulders. After that, Sherlock easily slipped to the side, trying to wrap his lanky form around his friend’s back. A little push and his leg was free.

And so they wrestled. There were a lot of grunts and cries and even more laughing. John was surprised, but happy, to see this side of Sherlock. There wasn’t much that made his friend smile, short of a murder; and almost nothing made him playful. Maybe he had gotten high before he came home?

Anyway, John still ended on his back, with his limbs pinioned by the long ones of his friend. Sherlock’s nose was a centimeter above his, and his eyes bored into the doctor’s. “Do you surrender?” gloated the detective.

“Never,” smirked the smaller man in response. He wriggled and squirmed, trying to work at least some part of him free, but it seemed that Sherlock had taken to sitting on him. The small pelvis held his down, while the thin knees held down his wrists. Sherlock’s feet worked with his hind end to hold the doctor’s thighs down, while he arched over the smaller man. Long fingers buried themselves in the short blond hair and bony elbows held the shoulders still. Sherlock Holmes was a lot stronger than he looked. Certainly more than John had given him credit for.

Soft blue-gray eyes looked up into the sharp blue-green ones. For moment, neither of them blinked, their breathing syncing unconsciously. John had to break the other man’s will. It was the only way he was going to win.

Then he got an idea.

Swallowing his pride, and the urging in his mind telling him it was a bad idea, John willed his eyes to stay steady with Sherlock’s. He couldn’t give away what he was about to do. At this distance, the genius would notice even the smallest muscle shift in the doctor’s face.

Without blinking, or taking his eyes away, John jerked his head up the few centimeters needed to close the distance between his lips and Sherlock’s.

It worked. The younger man froze in shock. He kept staring, though, at what, it didn’t matter. His thoughts disappeared and his mind filled with the electric charge given off by the other man’s lips on his.

The doctor lowered his head back to the floor, forgetting the fact he had a body for the time being, as he watched Sherlock’s face, gauging his reaction. Slowly, the consulting detective came back to himself and blinked, making eye contact with him again. The shock was enough to put John in his place.

He lowered his eyes, succumbing to the emotions at the forefront of his mind. At this physical proximity, the only distance he could take was just not to look at the other man directly.

Sherlock didn’t care. He shifted his weight slightly, less pressure, more just setting, cradling more like, and let himself close down upon John’s lips. They were soft, and warm, and unexpectedly pleasurable.

John just lay there, surprised at the reciprocation. Then he melted. Closing his eyes, and kissing back, he lifted his head a little to meet the other man better. No longer feeling the pressure setting on him as heavily, he tried moving his hands.

Sherlock eased his legs into a straightened position, setting John’s wrists free. Those surgeon’s hands responded by running up his sides only pull themselves around his torso and down, so that he was forced to put his weight on the smaller man below him.

Not that John minded. After all the gear he’d had to carry around in Afghanistan, his lanky friend was rather light.

The came up for air, panting and holding onto each other.

“Do you surrender?” croaked Sherlock

John smirked. “Never.” He lifted his head to nuzzle against the other man’s jaw. “Do you?” he whispered, squeezing his arms tighter around Sherlock to drive his point home.

“John Watson, I’ve been yours since the day we met.”


End file.
